


sleeping beauty

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood Drinking, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Ruby/Sam Winchester (mentioned), Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: March 12, 2009. Sam rescues Dean from Alastair.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Sleeping Beauty_ , track seven of _Mer de Noms_

_Drunk on ego,_  
_truly thought I could make it right_  
_if I kissed you one more time to_  
_help you face the nightmare,_  
_but you're far too poisoned for me_

It feels—

The light has opened up cracks in Alastair and Sam can feel it, deep. It used to hurt but it doesn't anymore, now that he's this strong. His power is tendrils of pure energy and he'd close his eyes to follow them as they wrap inexorable around the smoke of Alastair's essence but he's too busy watching, steadily, because he wants to see this. The fucker's eyes roll back away from white, the meatsuit writhing in the agony of Sam insinuating his mind throughout the smoke that fills it, and Alastair's not screaming but Sam can't have everything, can he. It's enough, almost, to clench his fist and feel the dark snuff out, like fire dying in the absence of air. The body drops. Dead. Sam shudders, sort of, deep up in his stomach and chest, the power breathing out and settling heavy in his bones, and when Castiel stares at him he doesn't flinch, because he's the real power here, he did what angels couldn't—and then Castiel is gone, with a rustle of feathers. Sam breathes out sharply, then—Dean.

He goes to his knees, in the spilled salt and holy water and spattered blood and the smeared chalk of the devil's trap, seizes Dean by the shoulders to haul him up to sitting, gets his face between Sam's two palms and—he's still breathing. He's alive. Some clenched-tight muscle in Sam that he'd been ignoring eases and he lets out a weird noise, some sound he's never heard himself make before, and then he's crushing his mouth to Dean's slack one, licking deep. His chest is shuddering. He gets one hand on the back of Dean's head and his fingers slip in whatever's wetting Dean's hair; the other he puts right over Dean's still-beating, sluggish heart. He—he isn't waking up, but Sam's still kissing him, can't seem to stop. He licks over the bitter-fear flavor at the back of his tongue, scrapes his teeth over the sweet familiar swell of his bottom lip, frantic, panting, and then there's a burst of blood, a split opening under the pressure Sam's putting on it.

He stops, finally, at that. Puts his forehead to Dean's and licks his lips, swallows. "Okay," he says, roughly, and pulls back. Dean's head lolls back against the grip Sam's got on the back of his neck, and he'd just look like he was sleeping if he weren't battered bloody, bruises blooming up deep, and god knows what's happening where Sam can't see. It twinges the still unhealed part of Sam that's seen Dean dead, too many times, and he has to breathe deeply for a second so he doesn't vomit. He's still shaking, fine shudders in his chest and his arms, but his hands are steady as he gets to his feet, as he lifts Dean into the bridal carry that he's had to do too many times—a hundred times— _(torn open chest, gunshot, poison, broken neck, bleeding from an axe in Sam's own hands, eyes fluttering and looking so confused, body broken, his heart his heart his heart—)_

He carries Dean through the ruined, abandoned plant to where he left the car, parked at an insane angle five feet from the entrance. Sam should put him in the backseat. He lays him over the front bench instead, as carefully as he can—half-runs around the hood as soon as he's down, slips behind the wheel and gathers him close again, arranges them both so Dean's head is pillowed on Sam's thigh. His breath's coming staggered, slow, and Sam shoves the key into the ignition, the engine roaring to life, and then he's pulling away, one hand on the wheel and one hand on Dean's chest, driving as fast as he can back toward the town he blew through on the way here, the hospital he knows might not be enough that's twelve miles away. Twelve miles, and Dean's breath is too shallow, barely warm against Sam's hip. He pushes the accelerator down and the Impala leaps forward.

He'd pray, but now that he knows what angels are like there hardly seems to be a point to it. He doesn't dare glance down. He drags his hand up from Dean's chest to his sticky-warm neck, presses his fingers in hard to feel the pulse, thready but present. He leaves his hand there, on the fragile column of Dean's throat, and unbidden comes the thought, _I killed him_ , arriving in his head whole, perfect, like a sentence in a book he's been waiting forever to read.

He blows out a long breath. He killed Alastair. He licks his lips and Dean's blood is still there, the flavor thin and coppery and wild in his mouth—not the rich iron darkness of Ruby's blood that's still warm in his stomach, still lighting him up on the inside. It feels... insane. A car passes going the other way, its lights filling up the cabin for a second, and he does glance down, then, just for a moment—sees Dean's still, battered face, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his pale skin. He's bleeding sluggishly from the split on his lip and Sam looks back up at the road, taking in the sign that says he's still got five miles to go, passing a slow-moving minivan on autopilot. His thumb smears over Dean's lips, over the plush of them, and the blood's warm, slippery under the sensitive pad.

He swallows. He's—hard, a little. Not all the way, but enough that his stomach's in a twist with it. The adrenaline, maybe, or the aftereffect of Ruby's mouth on his, of Dean's—and again, the thought, _I killed him_. He killed Alastair. It's like a loop, in his head. The power's still lurking, heady inside him, fueled by the filthy tang of Ruby's blood, and—he's glad about it, for once. They'd sat on the side of the road and Dean had _cried_ , like he almost never did, shuddering and unable to hide it. Sam hadn't known what to do. But then—Alastair's smug voice cracking. The angel, beaten bloody by him and glowing with impotent, inadequate grace, watching helplessly from the sidelines. It was Sam, it was his power and mind and hands, that reached in and did the job when Heaven couldn't. When Dean was bleeding, too weak to do what had to be done, it was Sam who stepped in, who was strong enough.

The adrenaline-shudder in his chest quiets, finally. Blue sign on the right—just a mile to go, now, and there's town-light putting a dull glow in the sky over the looming, dark trees. "Nearly there," he says, aloud, and looks down at Dean again. His pale face is turned in toward Sam's lap, half-hidden, tacky blood smeared darkly over his cheek and jaw from Sam's hand.

A wave of something crashes into Sam's chest—guilt or love or tender, aching fury, he genuinely can't tell. He blinks away a sting of heat at the back of his eyes and makes the turn into the hospital lot, dodging cars and heading right for the ER entrance. He saved Dean this time and he'll save him again. He'll save the world, if he has to—he'll kill Lilith and any other demon who stands in his way, any angel, if it'll make Dean safe. He knows how, at last, and now nothing can stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156500069399/sleeping-beauty)


End file.
